Billy hadn’t intended on being quite so reckless. He hadn’t planned on going quite so fast, even. It wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for him to hop on his bike, hit the accelerator, and see just how fast it could take him. Feeling the wind whip against his skin, hearing the rumble of his engine as he practically soared through the streets of Cherry Grove, past all of the businesses that he’d grown to love, until he found himself speeding out onto rockier, uneven paths, well into the countryside and away from prying eyes. It was a brief reprieve from all the hustle of The Writer’s Stop, from his own inward battle regarding his feelings for Dougie, his own shattering grief concerning the loss of Julian, and the stress that came with looking out for his family. He could see, more often than not, that Riley was hurting, and yet he hardly knew how to help her. Joy and Fionn had their own struggles, the two of them bottling each and every one of their problems up inside, brushing them away as though, if they ignored them hard enough, they might just disappear. And even Jefferson was still struggling; he hid it well, but Billy knew that he missed Grace dearly, and that their separation was draining him almost beyond repair. The two of them had a sad sort of a kinship in their shared losses of Julian and April, and yet there were days where Billy barely knew where to begin to help him. Quite frankly, Billy often thought that the only person being truly honest with themselves was Daisy; the way that the other Dunne sibling had called him out, insisting that he be truthful regarding what had happened that night with Dougie – it wasn’t a conversation that Billy had wanted to have, but one that had been needed. He’d managed to hide away the memory of his and Dougie’s kiss, pushing it deep down alongside his feelings for the other man, and as much as it pained him to accept the fact, he wished that he, and various others, could share that same, unabashed honesty that Daisy was exhibiting.
In all honesty, Billy had always known that his little excursions out on his motorcycle were detrimental to his own wellbeing, but it allowed him a moment to forget about all of his problems, to act as though they didn’t exist at all. At that speed, with the wind in his hair, and the familiar sights of Cherry Grove and New York City’s looming skyscrapers blurring in his vision, he could pretend he still lived in a world in which Julian was alive, a world where he was happy, without an ounce of guilt buried deep in his chest for his own misgivings and unfaithful behaviour towards the love of his life.
It was that same knowledge that should have deterred him once again, and yet it hadn’t. He’d managed a few scrapes and bruises over the passing months, and had been on the receiving end of more than one scolding from friends and family alike for his recklessness, but today had been one of the worst outcomes imaginable. As soon as his wheels had skidded along the pebbly, uneven surface as he’d left the Cherry Grove borders, he’d felt the weight beneath him shift in an altogether unfamiliar, and startling nature. The bike had skidded onwards, veering well out of his control for ten yards, twenty, forty, eighty, two hundred, before he was thrown over the handle bars and landed with a crack, tumbling against the gravel as his body seared with pain. He’d known immediately just how drastically he’d screwed up; he had felt and heard the snapping noise as his arm had collided with the ground, and the cuts and scrapes, the imminent bruises that were no doubt already flourishing along his skin – he felt as though was shattering into a million pieces.
Realistically, he knew the sensible option would be to stay where he was, retrieve his cellphone, and call for help. He could call Fionn or Riley, maybe even Jefferson if any of them had immediate access to some form of transport. He didn’t want to concern anyone, though, or set them into a state of panic, so instead he opted for getting himself home. He’d hop back on his bike, take it nice and slow, and get himself to the hospital when he was ready – no big deal.
The ride back to Cherry Grove had been agonising. The pain seared through his arm at an alarming rate, all of his additional aches and pains pulling on him, the journey venturing long past uncomfortable, and surpassing even his own expectations. He felt entirely unsteady, as though he could topple off the bike (again) at any moment – and, quite frankly, if he wasn’t careful then he really would be reunited with Julian any minute now.
He made it back, though, and carelessly abandoned his bike on the side of the road, leaving it untethered as he let it halt and crash against the sidewalk outside of The Writer’s Stop. Without so much as a second glance, he stumbled towards his shop, knowing that it was long past the hour that there might be any customers inside. He fumbled for his keys in the jacket of his pocket, holding his injured arm close to his chest, wincing as he felt the slow trickle of blood dripping along his jaw, he managed to wriggle the key into the lock and push it open. Letting out a long, sigh of relief that was soon muffled by a harsh cry of anguish, he groaned, gritting his teeth as his eyes watered from the pain that coursed through his entire body.
Stumbling into the shop, he managed to kick the door shut, before realising he wasn’t alone. The lights out back were still on, dim but recognisable through the darkness of the rest of the building, and he swore to himself. Of course – there’d still be someone around to lock up, to make sure everything was shut away safely. He couldn’t for the life of him remember who was scheduled for the day, and he absently hoped for Belle or Livvy, cursing himself as guilt soared through him as he thought to himself; not Dougie, anyone but Dougie – he can’t see me like this, please not Dougie.
Just then, the lights flickered on around and Billy cringed inwardly, his eyes finally landing on the one face he’d been hoping to avoid. Through gritted teeth as he tried, with all his might, to ignore the anguish both in his chest and his arm, Billy greeted the other man. “He– shit, uh, hey, Doug.”
As humbled as Dougie had been when Billy had entrusted him with the task of locking up The Writer’s Stop and taking the keys home with him, he didn’t think it had been the right decision. Dougie wasn’t really the smartest person around and having the burden of such a big responsibility weighing down on him seemed like an awful lot of pressure for a guy who still had trouble counting change for customers. But he’d agreed to do it because Billy had asked him, and he couldn’t say no to Billy.
When the front lights of the shop had gone out and the bookstore-slash-café had been plunged into darkness, Dougie’s stupid sentimental mind cast its thoughts back to the last time he’d stayed late in the shop. It had been the two year anniversary of The Writer’s Stop and Billy had thrown a party to celebrate. Daisy had insisted that they had to go, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer, which was an unnecessary demand as Dougie wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He’d dressed in his best shirt and let Rae prop a flower crown on his head. Then he’d stayed behind when everyone else had left and offered to help Billy tidy up. And after that…
There was no point thinking about the kiss, because Billy didn’t remember it and he’d been drunk anyway. It didn’t mean anything. Daisy pointedly told him that Annabeth liked to pretend her first kiss with Percy hadn’t meant anything either, and Dougie appreciated his sister’s efforts to cheer him up, but he wasn’t Percy Jackson and Billy wasn’t Annabeth Chase. They were just two friends and they’d stay that way, and that was still a lot better than Billy taking awkward measures not to talk to him.
He ran a hand through his hair and tried to push all stupidly romantic thoughts of Billy away. It wasn’t fair to think of, not only his boss like that, but his best friend. Billy had been through enough without the likes of Dougie deciding they had a silly crush on him.
He couldn’t tell if it was fortunate or not when he was granted a distraction in the form of someone rummaging around in the front of the shop. As soon as his ears picked up on the sound he stood ramrod straight and allowed himself a brief second of panic. The last thing he needed was to come face to face with some burglar who wanted to rob the place of all the Penguin paperbacks. As tall and athletic as Dougie was after years of throwing himself headfirst into baseball games, he wasn’t the kind of person who could easily take on a thief and walk away unscathed – or victorious.
Fear catching in his throat, Dougie pulled himself up from where he’d been crouching down stocking the young adult section, using the shelf for leverage as he hid himself from view behind stacks upon stacks of John Green books. He could see a shadowy figure moving around at the front of the store and slid Looking for Alaska along the shelf so he could create a little window for himself and get a better view.
Logic would have told him that the only way in the store at that time of night would be with a key, and there had been no signs of a break in which meant the intruder was someone who was allowed access to The Writer’s Stop out of hours. But logic and Dougie Dunne had never been easily acquainted so the only thing that kept the man grounded was the familiar whiff of cologne that hit his nostrils. He’d recognise that scent anywhere as it was often accompanied by the soft hint of coffee clinging to it. The smell was distinctly Billy.
Moving out from behind the bookshelf just as the front lights flickered on, Dougie heaved a large sigh of relief upon spotting Billy standing there, hair looked mussed and fluffy as per usual. But the sound was abruptly cut off by a strangled gasp when he spotted that state his friend was in.
“Billy!” he frowned, charging forward with his hand slightly outstretched. He held off a few feet away from Billy though, stopping in his tracks, knowing that if the other man was seriously hurt then keeping his distance would be the only thing in his power to ensure that he didn’t make things worse.
“Billy, what – what happened?” he asked, eyes wide and round and staring at the nasty cut on Billy’s jaw. Used to baseball injuries, Dougie wouldn’t say that he was particularly queasy when it came to blood and gore, but it was a whole different matter when he saw it paired with Billy.
“Did someone do this?” was the first question he asked, his voice breaking on the last word.
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